


dirt to your memories

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time since the Barrier broke and monsters went free, and everything seems to be peaceful and safe. But Sans... well. He needs to be sure, that's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dirt to your memories

**Author's Note:**

> _(That’s not who you are. It’s just how you feel._ – you can’t wrestle apologies from the sea or sun, [but by fuck are you ever going to try](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/143365050164/).)
> 
> this story involves a depiction of a character having a flashback-induced anxiety attack.

_You dream about clasped human hands._

_There are so many hands—too many hands, nimble and weaving and making your skull ache as you strain to parse them, dreamlike, through the static that envelops your phantom body, your stolen soul. It reminds you of your father, of the handful of memories you’ve managed to keep clutched to you even as the world grinds and shakes and rattles on, oblivious to the monsters who’ve slipped sideways through the fabric of reality and been crushed to sand in its great clockwork guts._

_There are so many hands. Two clasped hands upraised, shining, a light like a beacon, like a crystallization of Determination, or a hope, or a dream. Souls, humans, it’s always been more Alphys’ bag than yours. Exhaustion and despair weigh you down. You don’t care, it’s impossible to care—stop the world from winding back and it just goes and ends, go figure._

_“Just give up,” you tell them, air whistling through your rictus grin in the void. “I did.”_

_The hands shift—a pair wrapped together at the middle, a pair up and signing in the air, spelling out one bad skeleton pun after another. The impact’s kind of lost in sign instead of sound and it reminds you of all the ones your dad used to tell you, that were never as funny spoken aloud, but they’re trying so damn hard that it’d be endearing if it weren’t so pitiful._

_You can feel your brother near you. He seems annoyed. Despite yourself, you begin to chuckle._

_All of a sudden everything comes rushing back—the world around you clears—you know where you are, and when, and there is Papyrus. You remember that there’s no record of anyone ever having made it this far. You remember that somebody’s still fighting for you._

_The stubborn kid is smiling, runs in their tights and blood in their hair. You can’t understand why you thought they had too many hands—their right is faintly glowing, like the golden locket on their breast, but there’s only two arms and two legs on them after all. Each bone connected to the next bone, in its proper place. Like an old nursery rhyme. Heh heh._

_“Nah,” you say, and stick your hands in your pockets. “I’m rootin’ for ya, kid.”_

_The human’s face lights up, and_ your eyesockets snap open to a faceful of ceiling.

For a long moment you don’t recognize where you are. This sure ain’t the house in Snowdin, and that ceiling’s too close for it to be in the lab.

There are birds chirping nearby. The light streaming through the curtains to shine on your shins is natural. The sheets under you are properly attached to the bed and have been laundered within the past week. You’re out. It’s been over a year since you all got out. Nobody’s sent you back. You’re fine.

You sit up, groaning, and stare sidelong at the framed picture on the bedside table. There you are, and there’s everyone else too. The Sans in the photograph looks happier than he’s ever been since the accident.

Your eye drops to the middle of the frame: Frisk with their arms around the prince and the other one, smiling the biggest you ever see them smile.

You look away.

It’s fine.

 

 

Tori leaves the kids with you and your brother and Undyne and Alphys. She’s got to go to a lot of meetings to prove her credentials and get her school up off the ground, she explains, and you wink at her and tell her with guns like hers you’re sure she can pick it up herself if she has to. She guffaws at the bad joke, slapping her knee, all the gravity of motherhood and teacherhood and the rest of it dropped like a sackful of hot potatoes just for an instant. Your grin widens.

Then she’s gone, and you retreat to the sofa with Alphys to keep an eyesocket on the proceedings.

As tends to happen whenever Papyrus and Undyne are in the same room, things devolve into complete pandemonium within minutes: Thrown pillows, children screaming, raucous laughter. Papyrus has Asriel up on his shoulders, Frisk’s darting about on the floor living up to their name. Chara sticks close to Undyne, holding their own in the pillow war, grinning crookedly all the while.

“I’m j-just _saying,”_ Alphys tells you in an undertone, “that you c-could stand to give them more of a _chance,_ Sans.”

She’s been on you about this for weeks now. ‘S if she thinks it’s actually gonna crack you.

“Well, you know me,” you say, and shrug. “I haven’t got an optimistic _bone_ in my body.” She narrows her eyes and frowns at you for the joke; you grin wider at her, winning as possible, before sighing and relaxing. “And I’ve, uh, explained this to you before too. Frisk, now, we know them, we can trust them. The little prince may’ve been behind the worst of the anomaly, but he didn’t have a soul then. He does now, and he’s _shown_ remorse. Chara’s less of a known property. Who knows how often those kids have rewound time and for what purposes. They don’t seem that distressed about things, they sure ain’t sorry for any wrong they’ve done—and it’s a documented fact that they’ve apparently got a sick sense of humor. I’m gonna need some empirical evidence before I let my guard down around this kid.”

“Who _else_ d-do I know,” Alphys says dryly, “that likes to p-pretend that everything’s j-just fine when it’s not and makes b-bad jokes to d-deflect even when it’s n-not funny?” She taps a claw to the side of her face. “I’ll g-give you a few hints. H-he’s wearing a b-blue hoodie—”

“Enough,” you say. It itches at your marrow when she compares them and you—she knows; that’s why she does it. “We could at least not have this conversation when the kid’s in the room. It’s not polite to talk about people who’re listening, Alph.”

Alphys gives you this Look and you shove your hands deeper into your pockets and hunker down further on the sofa to demonstrate that you aren’t gonna budge.

You’re saved by a crash from the other side of the room and its subsequent hush as everyone freezes.

Now, general destruction is pretty much a given when Papyrus and Undyne are here and kicking up a ruckus. Things get thrown and knocked over; furniture gets broken. Sometimes windows, too. You’re just happy that they tend to restrain themselves from actually setting the house on actual fire. It is not the kind of thing that people in your household _or_ Undyne’s tend to get fussed about.

So it’s bewildering enough that your brother and his loud bestie and all the kids are standing looking at what’s left of the smashed vase on the floor like Gyftrot caught in headlights. Chara’s closest—you guess that means they’re the one who knocked the thing over—and they’ve got a bizarre blank look on their face that would set your hackles up if you had any. Slowly, slowly, they kneel and reach a hand out towards the broken fragments.

Thoughts rush through your head of them using one of those jagged edges as a knife, carving through Papyrus-Undyne-Asriel in quick elegant slices with the kind of reflexes you’ve seen both them and Frisk exhibit under extreme pressure, and before you know it you’re on your feet, but Chara just says “oh” in a tiny squeaky voice and makes a soft noise like air rushing out of a hole in a balloon, pulling their hand back slowly. Blood’s welling up from their fingertip, a bright red bead that swells up and drips, staining their fingers and the creases in their palm and splashing onto the floor. It’s barely darker than the color of ketchup.

Frisk takes a step towards them, then another, and leans down to put their hands on Chara’s shoulders. Chara startles, jerking under the soft touch, and they whip their head around to stare at the other human with glassy unfocused eyes. Their gaze travels to Asriel, who’s frozen with his fur half-bristled, eyes fixed on all that blood, then they look up at Papyrus and Undyne and the hell of it is that they _flinch_ and cower back, landing with their palm flat on the broken glass and crushing it with a sharp snap.

So, the million-G question: Is that guilt, or is it fear? You’re not sure which is preferable, to be honest.

Frisk patiently extricates Chara’s hand from the danger zone, reaching out and pulling their friend to their chest. Chara’s shoulders start shaking, and they start to mumble, too muffled in Frisk’s shirt for you to make heads or tails of what they’re saying. Frisk pats their hair and makes shushing noises.

Undyne squats down to get on the kids’ level. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” she says. “We break more sh—more stuff than this all the time, we can just get new ones. It was an accident, it’s no big deal.”

Oh. They’re saying _I’m sorry_ over and over, fast and low and a little hysterical. This is not the reaction of a normal kid who’s just broken something. Are they that scared of retribution? Or are they trying to apologize for something a lot more serious?

“C’mon,” Undyne says. “Let’s get ‘em patched up, Frisk.”

Frisk nods and follows her direction, pulling Chara with them as they get to their feet. Asriel’s still frozen, though your brother’s put gentle hands on his shoulders. Only his eyes follow Undyne and his friends as they troop off towards the bathroom, where you keep the first aid kit in case of injury to your fleshy companions.

There’s a tug at your own shoulder, and you swivel to look at Alphys, who’s staring at you with a distinctly _if you’re not going to make yourself useful then at least sit down_ sorta reproach. You sit, or let her push you back down onto the couch, more like.

Your mind’s still racing. You don’t know what to make of any of this.

 

 

Once upon a time, lifetimes and world lines ago, you used to be a scientist.

Even now, when you’re on the surface, you still haven’t quite got it in you to get back up on that particular horse. For one thing, you’re kinda already at capacity for damns to be given just concerning yourself with your brother and the circle of friends you’ve somehow accrued through him and Alph and Tori and Frisk. For another, there are some old wounds that’re always gonna be a little raw, deep down where no one can see.

But you were a scientist once upon a time, and apathy and antipathy notwithstanding, you’ve managed to retain a little bit of that methodology. When you’re trying to get answers and you can’t trust opinions, that means you need to observe and collect data. Lots and lots of empirical data.

It’d be easier if you could actually remember the resets, instead of just having the typical déjà vu. If you could actually remember the kinds of things that Frisk and Chara had gotten up to. Frisk, you know: Whatever badness they swallow down and keep on the inside, it just ain’t who they are to go out looking to cause harm. So if they’d ever done anything really bad in past timelines, you could just mark that down as Chara and feel justified in your wariness and call it a day.

But seeing as you can’t remember, all you can do is take every excuse you can to lurk and try to glean Chara’s true nature through your observations.

It honestly does not tell you that much. They’re downright clingy with Frisk and Asriel; they like chocolate and jokes and explaining things to everyone around them and offering unsolicited commentary, either sarcastic or as setup for aforementioned jokes. They behave themself around Tori. They stick to Undyne and to Asgore like a little human-shaped burr. And there’s no way for you to tell how much is genuine and how much is an act.

There’s little flashes of not-quite-right here and there, of course. Times their habitual smile either slips or gets to be almost plastic in its perfection. Times they make a mistake and freeze up and get shaky and way overreact in their urge to apologize.

Slightly fucked-up kid, or guilt-wracked ex-murderer? You don’t know. You just can’t seem to figure it out. And it drags on you, because—

You’ve gotta know that Papyrus is safe. And more than that, you’ve—you’ve gotta know if _you’re_ safe. If you’re allowed to let yourself get attached, or if you and everybody else are just gonna get wound back to the beginning all over again with no one the wiser.

Which of the possibilities is safer? Which is gonna have less fallout? You almost hate having more energy to devote to living, because of how much of that gets reallocated towards that gnawing worry.

Does it even matter?

Are you, in the end, just looking for an easy bad guy to blame for your own problems, like Alphys insists?

You just don’t know.

 

 

So: It’s a nice spring afternoon, sun shining, birds singing, flowers blooming and all that. Frisk’s off playing with the kid who used to tag along after Undyne all the time and is now stuck on your brother instead. Asriel’s visiting his old man—probably plying Asgore to spoil him with all the things Tori doesn’t allow him to have. Tori herself is shopping, and bringing Chara with her; you wink and act real winning and more or less invite yourself in on best friend privileges. Tori seems happy with the situation, and however Chara feels about it, they don’t comment either way.

Walking down the aisles of the grocery store and loading up the cart with stuff off her list, you wind up slacking on your self-imposed observe-the-kid duties. But it’s Toriel, so even you can’t really blame yourself. It’s been almost a year since the exodus—you feel weird thinking of it like that because it’s Chara’s word, relating your people’s escape from captivity to an old story from their human religion, but it _is_ a good word and it’s Frisk’s religion too, so you guess you’ll take it—and being with her live and in person has yet to get old.

You could watch her forever: The way her snout crinkles up when you get her to laugh so hard she snorts, the glasses she wears when she’s reading books or the fine print on labels. The occasional sweeping gestures she makes with her paws. The way her eyeteeth poke out from under her lips when she starts to grin, and the intensity of her deep reddish-brown eyes on you—it’s not just the strength and consistency of the eye contact that’s startling, though it sorta is in comparison to Pap and Alphys and Frisk, but the force of her _attention,_ like when she’s listening or talking to you, you’re the most important guy in the world.

And being able to swap terrible jokes with her all the time instead of just whenever you and she have thought to check the door to the Ruins simultaneously? Man. It is the _best._ You don’t know what the hell you ever did to deserve a best friend like her, but you’re selfish enough that you don’t plan to give her up if you can help it.

Whatever else can be said about Chara, they at least just shake their head and grin whenever you and Tori get the bad joke ball rolling too fast and furious to stop it. By now, even Frisk would be sighing surreptitiously. This kid’s got pretty great taste in terrible puns; you’re trying your hardest not to let that sway your data collection, but… Bad jokes. They’re your only weakness.

It doesn’t take you long to notice that Chara finds a way to position themself between Tori and the shelves whenever human customers pass the three of you in the aisles. You’ve seen them do this before; they seem to prefer monsters to humans on the whole, to put it lightly, with Frisk as their only exception to the otherwise hard rule.

At first you just figured they went for avoidance over aggression because humans are notoriously harder to kill than monsters are. But by now… you look critically on their knuckles gone white on the back of Tori’s dress, their head turned away so that they can just barely stare at the passersby from the corner of their eye, their shoulders hunched in and the tension of their spine. You’re far from an expert on humans, despite the skeletal similarities (heh), but you’re pretty sure that right there’s fear.

You don’t exactly go shoulder-to-hip with Tori to make a monster fence for Chara to hide behind. That… ain’t really your place, and though you try to stay wary-but-neutral on them, you and they aren’t quite what you’d term pals. But neither do you step away to expose them to prying human eyes.

“Hey kid,” you tell them in a stage whisper the third time this happens. “Quick, while Tori’s not watching—you mind passing me some ketchup to sneak into the cart? You’re closer.”

You’re joking, as obviously as you can, because Tori is indeed watching you—she’s chuckling into her sleeve, in fact—but you give Chara your biggest shit-eating grin nonetheless. Their gaze flicks up to hers, almost like they’ve gotta ask her for permission, and then they turn away from the humans on the other side of the aisle and pull a ketchup bottle from the shelf next to them, handing it off to you with shaky fingers.

They’ve maybe relaxed just the tiniest bit, so you tilt your skull at Tori, and she nods and passes you the shopping list so you can relay items off it to Chara while she uses her body and the cart to shield them. Distractions are, in your experience at least, a good way to not do an acrobatic pirouette off the handle when you’re getting dangerously close to freakout threshold. And whether it’s the busy work or being given directions to follow, Chara’s hands get steadier the further you three travel down the aisle.

Loud footsteps pass by you and they freeze.

You half-turn: It’s a couple of humans, adults as far as you can tell (they’re tall and not wearing stripes, at least). The taller one has a short beard and gray in their curly brown hair. The shorter one’s face is as livid as their long hair is red. They’re bickering about something, body language sharp and impatient, voices loud and rushed so that their words overlap and slough meaninglessly off your shoulders.

Chara makes a faint feeble noise like an animal dying and then there’s a wet crash of glass that makes both you and Tori whirl around. The kid’s vibrating in place, face gone bloodless, the jar of salsa you’d had them grab a pile of so many glass shards and pulpy tomato and vegetable at their feet.

“Oh, dear,” Tori murmurs, and she kneels beside them, hands held out, not quite touching them. Chara’s own fingers knead uselessly at the front of their shirt, jostling the locket you guess they got from Frisk, the one you never see them without.

“Control your damn kid!” one of the angry humans yells in your direction, and Chara jerks where they stand. They’re smiling, but their eyes are too wide. It’s kinda freaky, if you wanna be dead _(heh)_ honest with yourself.

Still, you turn on your heel and look in the direction of the angry shoppers. From the way they both flinch, you bet your eyesockets have gone dark.

“Maybe you should chill just a little,” you suggest with a calmness you don’t really feel. They don’t respond; they just hurry away. Good riddance, you guess.

Turning back to your friend and her kid, though—ah, hell. Chara’s folded in on themself and is rocking in a ball while Tori tries to shush them, mumbling all the while. You strain your hearing to try to pick out what they’re saying, but it’s just a mess of repeated phrases—“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t be mad I’ll be good don’t be mad”—and you feel a little like you peeked under the bed to find something rotting there. A little shocked, a little sick, a lot disgusted. You’ve already got your hands full with your own business. You didn’t want to know _this._

“Is everything all right here?” says someone, and you peer over your shoulder to see some employees, all human, approaching from the other end of the aisle—attracted either by the yelling or the smashed merchandise or the panicking kid. You guess Chara sees them too, because they let out another of those low dying-thing moans, sending an awful prickle up your vertebrae.

“Sans,” Tori says. You turn. She’s looking directly at you, calm and authoritative, and for a second you imagine the queen she must’ve been once. “I will handle this situation, and the rest of the shopping. I need you to get Chara home as quickly as possible so that they may calm down.”

Agh. Why, _why,_ do you always end up getting suckered into these things. You hate being put in a position of responsibility. But just like you couldn’t turn Tori down when she made you promise to look after Frisk, you find yourself incapable of saying no to her here, too. Her gaze is too intense. She trusts you, little though she should. She has expectations of you, unqualified as you feel to meet them.

But it’s just getting the kid back to the house. Okay. It’s whatever. “Yeah, sure,” you say aloud. You bend down and get a hand around Chara’s elbow, levering them up, trying not to look at their eyes gone unseeing or the ugly smile half covered by their shaky hands. They’re not babbling anymore, at least, but they’re breathing too hard now. You’ve seen Frisk do that, you’ve seen Alphys do that, and if you don’t get them a place to sit down soon they’re probably gonna faint. Great.

They follow after you as you march them down the aisle: Small blessings. You take one last glance at Tori—she’s risen to her feet and is talking with the employees—before you turn the corner and pull up your magic in a flare to shortcut yourself and your passenger into the doorway between Tori’s hall and her living room.

As tends to be just your luck, no one is home. Frisk’s playdate must still be going. Chara toddles over to the couch with no input from you, thankfully, but they curl up into a ball and resume rocking, and you just _know_ that you’re gonna catch hell from Tori over this if you sidle on out.

So you sigh and cram your hands into your pockets and just start talking. You might be freaking out yourself, a little.

“So, uh, what did the skeleton’s cool bro say when he caught him lying?” Beat. No reaction. “He said, ‘You can’t fool me, I can see right through you!’” You mime a little cymbal crash for effect. Chara doesn’t even look at you. “Uhhh. Okay, okay. What did the skeleton order at the bar and grill?” You wait for a moment, staring desperately at them for any sign of response, interest, anything. “Spare ribs,” you answer yourself, spreading your hands wide. Nada. Tough crowd. “Why are graveyards so noisy?” Beat. “Because of all that _coffin’.”_

This one gets the tiniest of wet giggles out of the kid. You fight the urge to heave a sigh. Can’t show weakness, you’ll just freak ‘em out all over again.

“Okay, okay, this one I _know_ you’ll like,” you say, pointing finger guns at them. “What’s the best thing to get a skeleton on Valentine’s Day?” Chara doesn’t respond in words, but they sniffle loudly and wipe their face and watch you over their kneecaps, downright gremlin-like with their big red eyes circled in bruisy shadows, half-hidden in their hair. “A heart shaped box full of chocolate _bone-bones.”_

This time they snort. Your grin widens.

You keep going. You’ve got a million terrible skeleton jokes, each one worse than the last, stockpiled for just such situations as this (actually more for annoying your brother with and making Tori cackle, but you distract yourself coming up with new ones, so close enough). Chara stops hyperventilating after a few minutes—they stop crying after a few more—and another five minutes in you’re slouched on the cushion next to theirs, looking forward to their laugh.

“I’ve got one for _you,”_ they say at last, wiping their face one last time.

You spread your arms a little. “Lay it on me.”

“Why didn’t the dead kid try being nice to the skeleton?” they ask.

You keep your smile in place, despite your urge to frown. “Dunno,” you say. “Why didn’t they?”

“Because even if they wanted to be friends,” Chara goes on, “they thought they didn’t have a _ghost_ of a chance.” They shrug a little. “It turns out that they were just being a _bonehead,_ though.”

“Nah, kid,” you say, reaching out a little, stopping just short of touching them. “Chara. The real bonehead here is me.”

They shake their head, leaning back into the sofa, way more relaxed than you’ve seen them in a long time. “Thanks, Sans,” is all they say.

“Anytime,” you tell them. “This stuff sucks. I might not always be able to help, but you ask and someone definitely will.”

They nod and close their eyes.

(You guess you have your answers now.)

 

 

It doesn’t solve everything, to have some idea of what Chara’s baggage is, to be sure that they’re enjoying the life they have now a lot more than whatever came before it.

You crash. You crash for no goddamn reason, you crash because you always crash at some point, even if the times between get longer. You crash because oblivion’s right there waiting, and no one else can appreciate it, and there’s only a million to one chance that everything will be undone, but as long as the chance exists everything in the world’s meaningless.

You crash and you don’t get back up, your friends and their fussing notwithstanding. You try to tell yourself that it’s better you than Papyrus. Better you than Alphys, better you than Tori, better you than Frisk. But you’re damn tired of it all. If this is getting better, you won’t be cured until you’re on your way to being dust.

“Move over,” an impatient child’s voice says to Frisk beside you, and they do. You tilt your skull up; it’s Chara, and they’re frowning down at you.

They look nearly as tired as you feel, and they’ve got colorful bandaids on their fingers and their arms that weren’t there the other day. You ain’t got the stamina to wrack your brains as to whether they’ve been getting into scrapes, so you’ll just assume otherwise.

“Stand up,” they order, reaching out to grab your wrists and pull you up, refusing to give you any other choice.

“Kid,” you say—slur, almost—but they just hold you still at one arm and stand close next to you.

“I’m taller than you,” they assert.

This is the world’s most irrelevant non-sequitur, okay, but you guess you’ll bite. “What’s that got to do with anything, buddo?” you ask them, exhausted.

Chara soldiers on, not to be deterred by your lack of energy and your gloom. “You were two entire inches taller than Frisk and me when we left the underground,” they go on, relentless. “Now I’m taller. Check for yourself if you’d like. I’m sure we can get someone to fetch us a tape measure if we need one.”

You shrug, because that sounds like effort. Chara nods, apparently satisfied. Their line of sight really is, you notice, at about the middle of your forehead nowadays. That’s definitely new.

“Frisk and Ree just turned eleven,” they go on. “I’m going to be twelve this year. It’s been over a _year_ since the Barrier was broken. It’s staying this way. We are going to keep getting older and things are going to keep getting better. It’s fine if you can’t believe it. I’ll remind you. So will everybody. And you’ll see it for yourself, someday.”

Their bossiness ought to piss you right off. You don’t understand why it doesn’t. It’s—it’s nice instead, like having something solid to stand on for once.

“Heh,” you say out loud. “I hope you’re right, at least.”

 

 

_You dream again about clasped human hands, there at the end of all things._

_If you squint through the haze of nothingness and despair, you can just about separate them: Chara’s whole body bright with thrumming power, never letting go of Frisk, as if moving too far from them will break the grace that passes their ability to Save to Frisk, snap the threads of Hope and of Determination that keep the two of them bound._

_Two hands upraised, bursting with light: Chara’s arms tight around Frisk’s middle as they sign awkward jokes to you to snap you and Papyrus back to reality, remind you of who you are and prod you to fight back against Asriel’s control._

You wake up and stare at the ceiling for a while and reach for the bedside table for your phone, pulling up your chat with Chara.

 _can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it out, kid,_ you type, _but when frisk comes up with jokes they always tell ones that work in sign, don’t they._

You hit Send and grin sideways at your phone for the thirty seconds it takes for them to text you back.

 _Don’t be too hard on Frisk—they blank under pressure sometimes,_ they’ve replied. _All I did back then was help =)_

You give that smiley a long suspicious look, then shrug and lie back down, letting your eyesockets fall peacefully shut.


End file.
